Beer is the new campus extracurricular. Not beer-drinking, mind you. Beer-brewing, spinning a fizzy pilsner or a deep lager out of grains, hops and yeast. Whether it’s a home-brew kit from a mail-order catalogue, or objects from Dickson’s Hardware assembled into a makeshift still, a few committed Harvard students are brewing up a storm.
But who makes the best beer? For reasons both professional and personal, Fifteen Minutes had to know. So, on Saturday, FM hosted the First Annual Harvard Beer-Brewing Competition.
Nine students—Michael G. Sullivan ’03, J. Alan Dodd ’05, David E. Haller ’03, Anthony J. Herrera ’03, Adam J. Hornstine ’03, Maxfield R. Morange ’03, Daniel A. Koski-Karell ’03, Eric G. Brown ’03 and Andrew M. Jayich ’04—entered their finest brews. FM, meanwhile, recruited three of the most qualified judges in New England: the Master Brewers of Cambridge Brewing Company, Boston Beer Works and the Square’s own John Harvard’s Brew House. Cambridge Brewing Co., John Harvard’s and Grendel’s Den sponsored the event.
The amateurs and the masters arrived at The Crimson, the former carrying a rainbow of colored bottles, jugs and a keg, and the latter bringing their decades of experience and refined palates. A spread of chicken fingers and fresh hummus was laid out, and the judges took their seats.
Check out what’s brewing at Harvard.
The Judges.
Steve Slesar
VP and Master Brewer, Boston Beer Works
This year, Slesar and his brother celebrate the 10th anniversary of their company, which includes, among other restaurants and microbreweries, Boston Beer Works. It’s been a successful 10 years, and for good reason: Boston Beer Works has dozens of popular brews, all available in “growler size,” a half-gallon of delicious microbrew perfect for any guys’ night out (or in). Slesar’s experience in brewing goes back to his own school days, where he earned a degree in the craft.
Will Meyers
Master Brewer, Cambridge Brewing Co.
“The fastest way to learn about home-brewing is to replicate a beer several times,” Meyers says. “Say to yourself, OK, I’m going to make a porter, and do it again and again until you get want you want.” Meyers is more than a master brewer; he’s a walking encyclopedia of beer-brewing knowledge. He’ll mention cell walls and deflocculation in between discussing yeast brands and brewing temperatures. And for anyone who’s relaxed over a pint at Cambridge Common and ordered a house brew, chances are you’ve had something brewed by Meyers.
Geoff DeBisschop
Master Brewer, John Harvard’s Brewhouse
It’s a good bet that more Harvard students have had a beer brewed by DeBisschop than have taken Ec 10. If you’ve washed down a half-priced appetizer with a glass of John Harvard’s pilsner, then you’ve tried DeBisschop’s work. Every drop of John Harvard’s beer is a DeBisschop creation—even the five beers in the John Harvard’s sampler are personally chosen by him. What does the master himself prefer to drink? “My favorite is a good pale ale,” he says.
The Contest.
Michael G. Sullivan ’03
Sullivan’s been brewing since sophomore year. He says he starts the beer in a “big outdoor cooking thing” in his backyard and then brings the brew back to his room in Pforzheimer House. “Sophomore year we were using this kitchen in Jordan, and a tutor came by and stuck her head in and said, “What’s that smell?” he recalls. The beginning brewers, all underage, explained to her that they were making Celtic stew. “She smiled and walked away,” Sullivan says. This time, Sullivan brews in the name of his fraternity, Sigma Chi, and has given his brew a curiously long name, “Three Cowboys and an Indian.”
He’s the first contestant. “Michael Sullivan!” Meyers shouts, and Sullivan heads over with a six-pack of his beer. He uncaps a brew and pours a few fingers worth in each of the judges’ pint-size glasses. It’s good, the judges say, and start asking questions. What temperature did you brew this at? Sullivan answers that he brewed this in the recently chilly weather. The judges are impressed. “Especially brewing in the fall or the winter, you can have the weather work to your advantage” Meyers says. “Color’s nice,” DeBisschop adds.
There’s a problem with the carbonation, though, and some of the flavors aren’t coming in. “It’s a little dry...an Irish Red is supposed to have some sweetness,” Meyers says. Three Cowboys and an Indian might have been better if it were bottled differently. It’s unfiltered, like a lot of microbrews, but the judges suggest to next time fill the bottles all the way up. Sullivan’s bottles were a quarter from the top.
One thing Sullivan aces is presentation. For a label, he’s got a multicolored patch with himself in a cowboy hat: “That’s a really cool label,” says Slesar, to the nodding of the other two.
Afterwards, Sullivan admits, “I screwed up with the carbonation. But those guys are really cool. They really know what they’re talking about. It’s really cool to have them give me advice.” One thing the judges emphasize for Sullivan is that he should keep trying the same type of beer to get something good. Overall, Sullivan concludes, “I think they liked it.”
J. Alan Dodd ’05
Unlike most other contestants, who walked in with six-packs, Dodd came with two half-full milk gallon-jugs of a brownish liquid. “You’ve got us a little nervous,” one of the judges says. “This is like Gatorade on a Harley,” Slesar belts, as he takes a gulp of one of Dodd’s creations.
Dodd’s no stranger to making hooch. Back in his home state of Tennessee, Dodd has experimented with making liquor in homemade stills. Among his potables: a vodka that was “too watery” and a whiskey that “had the consistency of a milkshake.”
At Harvard, Dodd has focused on mead. Mead is considered to be the first alcoholic drink brewed by men, earlier than wine or beer. It is most famous now as the beverage of the Vikings and their pantheon; in Valhalla, the Viking heaven, newcomers were welcomed with generous chalices full of mead. Dodd’s version is an uncarbonated drink made from molasses and mixed—more accurately, chased—with ginger ale and lemon juice. He brought two kinds of mead to the competition. Why mead? “I wanted to diversify from the vodka and whiskey,” Dodd explains from underneath his cowboy hat, also noting that whiskey takes years to age properly, while his meads take closer to an afternoon. The first of Dodd’s quaffs, “Fateful Fluids” is light and spicy. His second batch—called “Un-Mead-iated”—is 12 percent alcohol, a take-no-prisoners drink. “I don’t have any female friends that will drink this,” Dodd admits.
But the all-male panel of judges get past their initial skepticism and hit the mead. When Dodd pours three glasses of Fateful Fluids, the judges first stare and sniff. “That’s...different,” Slesar says, shaking and smelling the mead. “I’m scared. I’m very scared,” he confesses. After sampling the beverage, Meyers suggests boiling the mead next time. “That would give you a slightly clearer product in the long run,” he tells Dodd. “It’s a little too sweet for my taste...It’s hard to detect there’s any alcohol on it.” DeBisschop is hopeful: “This would really benefit from controlled fermentation—flavors can get out of hand pretty quickly.” He adds, “That’s a smart way to get the girls to your dorm room, make that sweet stuff.”
“Un-Mead-iated” catches the judges by surprise. Wide eyes and chuckles follow the three master brewers’ tastes of Dodd’s more potent brew. “There’s a real interesting beginning to it,” Meyers says, sitting back in his chair. DeBisschop is encouraging: “Keep it up, man, you can make some pretty interesting stuff.”
Dodd has to leave the brew-off early before the judges pick their winners, but he is hopeful. “The judges tolerated the Fateful Fluid, but the other one went badly,” he says. “Well, that’s how I predicted this. [My drinks] are definitely not beer. They doesn’t have a lot of the things that make beer good.” But regardless of the judges’ decision, Dodd leaves satisfied with the event. “This was really interesting,” he says. “That guy was awesome!” exults DeBisschop.
David E. Haller '03
Whatever else it is, the Fox Club is now also a brewery. Haller recently established beer-making operations in the final club’s basement. He became interested in brewing earlier this year, when his girlfriend gave him a book on home brew. The toughest part so far, Haller says, has been convincing others to drink his beer. “I’ve been giving the porter out to people,” he says, but a lot of them “think it’s going to be some Arkansas bathtub bullshit deal that will make them go blind.” One thing Haller wins points for, though, is his safety-consciousness. The judges are impressed that Haller boiled all his bottles to sterilize them, which, he notes, “is a huge pain in the ass.”
Haller sidles up to the judges’ table with two brews, a porter and a steam beer. He is proud of both, but it’s the porter he’s counting on to impress the judges. “The porter turned out not so bad,” he says. The steam beer comes under heavy scrutiny from the judges. “What kind of yeast did you use?” Meyers asks. “Was it specifically a steam beer yeast?” No, the brewing store was out. Slesar takes a swig and turns to the other judges. “Did I get all the yeast [in this beer] or did you guys get any?” he asks. “If you brew this again,” Meyers says, “give it an extra couple of weeks before you bottle it.” As for Haller’s hops, Meyers says, “I tend personally to like using lower alpha-acid hops to bitter.” The porter garners a more enthusiastic reception. “Dry...chocolate...smooth,” DeBisschop scribbles on his judging sheet.
The judges suggest multi-stage fermentation for Haller. “Get yourself a second vessel,” Meyers says. DeBisschop prods Haller to keep brewing. “Do this beer again, because I think you’re really on the right track here,” he says. All three judges are very impressed when Haller informs them that they’ve been drinking his inaugural effort. Haller looks to keep making suds. “They’re pretty knowledgeable, gave me some ideas,” he says immediately after leaving the judges’ table. “I’ll definitely incorporate these suggestions. I’ll consider getting a second fermenter.”
Maxfield R. Morange '03
Just minutes after the competition began, Morange attempted to open one of his bottles of his special “Secession Cider.” What happened next was a literal volcano of cider, a spewing fountain of malternative liquid that sent nearby contestants fleeing. “I only carbonated it last night,” he says to Sullivan. “Well, that’s your problem,” he responds. “Try another one,” Heller says. “That was probably just a bad bottle.”
Max confirmed this was his first time trying to make cider, though pressing and fermenting fruits is old hat to him. Last year, Max spent time in France and Italy during the grape harvest, stomping grapes to make wine. “I got interesting in pressing things, so my dad’s friend had an antique press he gave me, and we went out apple picking around Harvard, Mass.,” Morange says. Morange and his friends, fellow competitors Danny Koski-Karell and Eric Brown, pressed the fresh apples in the Kirkland courtyard, and then Morange got to work. “A lot of it depends on the year, the pectin, the weather,” he says. Kirkland House also figured into the name. Rather than promulgating any kind of belief in states’ rights or the South’s right to break off from the Union, the three were inspired by an interest in homesteading and by their life in the Kirkland annex. The cider is a nod to their thoughts of leading a secession of the annex from the larger house. “I’m from Acton, Mass.,” Morange says, “a good revolutionary town.”
As for the homesteading, Morange and Koski-Karell are interested in bringing the idea of homemade a few steps further, perhaps making their own beef jerky and starting their own garden plot in Kirkland. And cider’s only the beginning. “I’m starting a mead soon,” Morange says. “I’ll be using clover honey.” Morange harkens back to the days, two years ago, when Sigma Chi made mead in their self-proclaimed “mead closet”—which happened to be the same closet space in Pfoho’s Belltower in which Herrera’s Senior Tutor Stout was brewed.
The judges are visibly impressed with the cider. “Sweet, very fresh, tasty and juicy,” says DeBisschop. Morange mentions that most of the apples in the cider were Granny Smiths, but two other kinds of apples were used. Meyers confirms what Morange had suspected earlier—that he probably bottled too early. Still, he declares it “pretty commendable” and notes a “nice apple aroma” and a “good balance of sweetness and tart apple skin.” One of the judges scribbles on the judging sheet: “Well done!” Morange thought the judging went well, too.
Anthony J. Herrera ’03 and Adam J. Hornstine ’03
The name of Herrera and Hornstine’s flagship brew, “Senior Tutor Stout,” isn’t a coincidence. A thick, dark, Guinness-like beverage that they describe as having a “coffee and chocolate flavor with licorice undertones to balance it out,” the beer got its title when their brewing operation was temporarily shut down by Pforzheimer House Senior Tutor Melissa Gray. The small Pfoho Belltower closet in which they were brewing turned out to be off-limits and was summarily locked up, as was the stout. Eventually, the closet was reopened so the two seniors could gather their things. These two have made a total of seven kinds of beer so far. Three will make it to the judges’ lips.
Herrera started brewing over the summer while living in Cabot House, and when fall semester rolled around he recruited Hornstine. “I don’t like drinking a lot,” Hornstine says, “but I like cooking—and brewing is another form of culinary expression. It’s a fun hobby. I don’t even drink but this is a very communal experience—our roommates and friends love it.”
Besides the Senior Tutor Stout, another of the beers entered is the Nahuatl Pale Ale. “Nahuatl”—pronounced NA-wat—is the Aztec word for rabbit, and this beer has a very hoppy taste, which the two call a “Sierra Nevada Pale Ale kind of style.” Their third and final beer is “Lou Brown’s Olé,” a Belgian-style brew. “We were trying to make a lambic ale,” Hornstine says, completely straight-faced. In the language of beer, apparently, that means that one uses a wild yeast that gets infected, giving the beer a kind of sour, nutty taste.
The Nahuatl is first up, and only Herrera goes up to face the master brewers. The pale ale is a solo creation, made before the two teamed up. “Sounded good, a nice release,” Slesar says, referring to the CO2 released when the bottle is opened. Herrera explains the word “Nahuatl” to the judges while filling their glasses. “It’s a word that means rabbit, and this beer is really hoppy,” he says. “It’s got a unique bite.” But it’s the bite that makes the judges pause. “What is that flavor? Is it the sanitizer?” Meyers asks. Herrera says it’s that the beer was brewed in a room without air conditioning over the summer—his room in Cabot House—at a scorching 95 degrees. DeBisschop sips it. “Besides the bite, everything else is really great,” he says. Like with Haller, Meyers suggests fermenting more than once. “If you do a multi-stage fermentation, you can take care of a lot of the dead yeast. And be aware of the amount you use to sanitize.” Herrera winces. The hop character, they agree, is great, but apparently Herrera’s sanitizer is affecting the taste.
In between beers, before Hornstine joins Herrera at the judges’ table, one of the judges asks if “Adam is the brewer’s assistant.”
“Uh,” Herrera says, “he probably wouldn’t like that title.” The judges chuckle. “Did he clean up the mess or did he just stand around and drink the beer?” Slesar asks. The judges wash their glasses out with water as Herrera pops the cap of bottles of the next beer, the Senior Tutor Stout, and Hornstine joins him. Great weather for a stout, the judges all agree. Immediately after the first sip, Meyers notices licorice. “We put a whole stick of brewer’s licorice in there and we still can’t taste it, so if you can, kudos to you,” Hornstine says. In fact, neither of the two other judges can taste licorice, only Meyers. “I had a bad night with Sambuca many years ago,” he explains.
“Great creamy head,” Slesar notes, the first of several compliments. “Ten seconds after you swallow it you’re left with this lingering roasted black malt taste,” Meyers says. DeBisschop likes it as well. “I’d like to see it nitrogenated,” Slesar says, taking another drink. “So would we,” Herrera responds. Slesar continues, “Good carbonation. You guys have good CO2 levels.”
Finally, the Olé. “I got a Chimay Grand Reserve coming out of this,” Slesar contributes, sniffing the glass.
Hornstine explains that the beer is named after the coach from the movie Major League. The judges are not visibly amused. “It’s really spicy,” DeBisschop says. Meyers nods. “Great complexity,” he says. “If you hadn’t told me anything about this I would have thought it was a Belgian brown ale.” Slesar thinks he picks up on a fig taste. “There’s a fig thing going on, there’s some residual sweetness, the hop profile’s really good,” he says. “It’s figgy, and it’s kind of biscuity—biscuity in a good way.”
After judging, the two are shocked by how much the judges could say about their beer. “Those guys just reverse-engineered our beer,” says Hornstine.
Daniel A. Koski-Karell ’03 and Eric G. Brown ’03
Like many of their competitors, Koski-Karell and Brown have been brewing for some time—a year, by their count. Koski-Karell and Brown were planning on concocting a brew anyway, and the contest happens to coincide with their brewing schedule. The timing, though, may not have been completely flawless. “In a perfect world, it would carbonate for another month,” Koski-Karell says. “Two weeks is kind of the minimum for the kind of work we like to do.” Koski-Karell, Brown and Morange make up the “Kirkland Brewing Cooperative.” Brown is absent from the competition, leaving Koski-Karell and Morange to defend their beer.
Koski-Karell joins Morange at the table, and they pour their seasonal ale, “Coq ’n’ Camel.” It has pumpkin and a variety of other flavors, they explain. From the start, however, what the judges notice is not the spices but the potency. “It’s strong!” DeBisschop exclaims, and laughs.
Slesar says there’s no formula for the proper amount or kind of spices—it’s an art. Meyers adds that with his own brews he always errs on the more subtle side with spices, while DeBisschop tells him the most important thing is to “write down what you do so that you can repeat it if you want.”
Slesar observes an abundance of malt flavor, which may be covering up the pumpkin. As with nearly every other brew that has appeared at the table, the judges talk about sterilization. They think Koski-Karell may not have sterilized correctly. “Iodine can be a real pain in the ass,” Myers says.
The two came away impressed. “A lot of the stuff they had to say was very complimentary,” Morange reflects. “I was kind of surprised at how well it turned out.”
Andrew M. Jayich ’04
When Jayich walks into The Crimson, heads turn. The only competitor to keg his beer and attach a CO2 pump, Jayich has five full gallons of his special porter ready for judging.
Jayich started brewing in the spring of his junior year in high school. His first brew was from a simple starter kit system, a batch Jayich describes as a “Honey HAC” or High Alcohol Content. “And,” Jayich adds, his friends got pretty ripped off it at his cabin on a lake in Alaska. He continued brewing into his senior year, trying various fruity berry beers and some wine. He’s done pilsners, Irish reds and stouts; Jayich is enamored with the darker beers.
The little starter kit has since burgeoned as Jayich put in a few capital improvements. Several hundred dollars later, Jayich now can draft and keg every beer, so as to avoid yeast settled at the bottom of the bottle—a common problem for the other microbrewers in the competition.
But that’s Alaska, and this is Cambridge. So Jayich had to borrow some equipment to make his brew, a seasonal porter. At the judges’ table, Jayich describes what they are about to drink as “cool and sweet...This is one of the first porters I’ve done.” Discussion about yeast ensues as the judges swallow the brew, called “Sweet Port o’ Mine.” Slesar thinks Jayich’s brew has a “genetic, cheery alcohol thing” going on. DeBisschop would like to see more of a roasted flavor for a porter and Meyers agrees. They all agree that Jayich’s beer needs a little more aging.
Sweet Port o’ Mine is the last of the beers, so that means the judges have plowed their way through nearly a dozen brews. Are they getting a little stewed? Perhaps. After a few more pointers on technique, DeBisschop tells Jayich, “Ultimately you’re the one who will be drinking it—so if I don’t like it, who really cares?” Yeah, Meyers adds, “Screw the owners if they’re pissed that a brew isn’t ready yet.”
Our Winners.
After tasting all the student brews, the judges confer for a few minutes. Contestants chat on the other side of the room, lapping up what was left of the beer they had brought. Master brewers and students alike appear to be buzzed (as do members of the FM staff).
The judges stand up, and Meyers speaks. “We were pretty impressed with the quality, and it was a pleasure to judge,” he said. “It was a tough call between first and second place, but we’ve decided.”
First Place: Anthony Herrera and Adam Hornstine, Belltower Brewing Co.
“Senior Tutor Stout”
“Excellent brew, do it again.”—Will Meyers
Second Place: Anthony Herrera and Adam Hornstine, Belltower Brewing Co.
“Lou Brown’s Olé Ale”
“Deceptively strong.” —Steve Slesar
Third Place: David Haller
“Arkansas Dave’s Porter”
“Excellent roasted malt finish.” —Will Meyers
Best Cider: Max Morange, Kirkland Brewing Cooperative
“Secession Cider”
“Sweet-very fresh, tasty, juicy.” —Geoff DeBisschop
Most Creative Use of Fermentables: J. Alan Dodd
“Un-Mead-iated”
“Whooooo!” —Steve Slesar
